fever dreams that scare you sober.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 04-07-2010, 08:50 AM

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Whatever it was that had made him come here, it was silent now, perhaps having fallen in awe of the creature before him. There was no instinct to flee and no fear within Harlowe; all of the nervousness he knew in strange wolves and being around them had evaporated, sucked right out of him. He could not explain it, but he would not question it. The man's piercing gaze had fixed onto him like a spotlight, searing down from high above to scrutinize the child. There in his face, Harlowe saw utter confidence; what reason did this dark-furred wolf have to fear a small thing like Harlowe, after all? The orange-eyed man was on a horse, he had years on Harlowe.

The question rang out in a strange tone, one that caused one of the boy's dark-tipped ears to flick, straining to catch the man's voice. It spoke of a place very far away from the quaint and cozy Valley that the tawny-furred wolf knew as his homeland. His name? He could hardly remember it anymore; it should not have mattered to this dark-furred stranger on the horse what his name was. Even so, the man had taken an interest, and Harlowe was compelled to respond again. He had been freed of his fear of speaking, though he did not know for how long, and he intended to make use of it. “Harlowe D'Angelo,” he responded. Once again the speech flowed easily; there was no hesitation in the Tyro's voice, which was rather melodious once he actually used it. He had not yet acquired the deep voice of a man; he still spoke like a boy, of course.

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